


Gifting

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Blackwood was always giving him things, watching him, waiting for a smile, waiting to stoop down and catch it with his lips.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifting

He remembers the first time Henry brought him something. Brought him a gift.

He hadn't expected it of Blackwood. There was never any real sign that any of this, any of what transpired on certain nights, any of what was never touched by light, any of what Coward gave up to him was ever more than the feeding of certain desires. He didn't expect acknowledgment of it, during the days, the rare hours their paths crossed.

Yet Henry gave him a gift.

It had been … appallingly endearing. He didn’t want to find himself attached to Blackwood in any manner other than the carnal, so to find his almost hidden nervousness almost sweet, was not acceptable. But how could he _not_ find the slight stiffness, hesitancy, the way Blackwood had set the box before him with a certain wariness, had looked at him as though he might actually be capable of doing damage to Blackwood's pride? How could he not? It was so … novel.

They were cufflinks, sapphires of a particularly clear, slightly unfashionable paleness. “I-” Blackwood's words seem to catch for a moment. “I thought they'd suit you,” he says, and somehow slightly misses the imperious, smug tone he usually adopts. It's almost a question.

Coward says nothing. It's fascinating, the tension in Blackwood's frame.

Picks up one gold set stone. Tugs up first one jacket sleeve, then the other, and replaces the gold crested cufflinks with these small bits of sky. Looks at them – no. _Admires_ them.

“I believe you were right,” he says, and the near silent breath Blackwood lets go makes him smile, amused, approving. “You're too generous.”

“No,” Blackwood says. Raises a hand to touch the pale wrist exposed. “I'm not.”

*

Blackwood brought him more gifts after that, small, expensive, well crafted things. Brought him more, though never with quite the same timidness, as though Coward's acceptance of one such gift had soothed his fears. He accepted them all, casually, politely – it would never do to appear too grateful, to appear as though he could be _bought_.

It's always too generous, the amount Blackwood lavishes on him. Too much for reality of what they are, of what they do, of what they mean to each other. Too frequent, and too well tailored to Coward's enjoyment to be as casual as Blackwood would have them appear.

One night Blackwood is waiting for him when he returns home, waiting with a bottle of especially fine, quite rare, brandy. “I've been waiting,” Blackwood says. Coward accepts the glass Blackwood offers, sips. It's perfect; his eyes close in pleasure, and he almost misses the relief on Blackwood's face. Who's knowledge of fine vintages is sketchy at best. He wonders, sometimes, who Blackwood employs to help him keep his gifts so appropriate – never ostentatious, never outside of Coward's range of interests.

“You've good taste,” he says, wondering if Blackwood will catch his teasing. “Have you helped yourself yet?”

“No,” Blackwood says, low, and again, “I've been waiting.” He toys for a moment with his empty glass, and then, “Does nothing move you?”

He sounds – not frustrated, even, but – some indefinable sort of sad. Weary. Coward says nothing, simply leans against the molding of the fireplace and watches. Of course nothing appears to move him. As though he'd give Blackwood some leverage over him. As though he'd show himself to be impressed by wealth or pretty baubles like some base born upstart. As though he could allow it to seem Blackwood was paying him for their rutting, was dictating any part of their arrangement.

Blackwood rises, stands before him, too close. “What do you want?” he asks. “I cannot seem to find it; nothing impresses you, nothing gets past your indifference for more than a moment, nothing compels you. Tell me, so I may lay it at your feet. Tell me, so I can at least know if I should stop trying. What do you want of me?”

Coward cannot think for a moment; what a ludicrous question. What is Blackwood playing at? Can he truly not see that _he_ impresses Coward, that he is the compelling force that Coward finds himself drawn to? There is nothing Blackwood can give him, nothing more than the simple act of catching his attention, of his regard, of knowing that it is he who Blackwood touches, gifts, wants. “What do you want of me?” he asks.

Blackwood raises his hand, rests his fingers on Coward's lips. “I want to see you smile at me,” he says, furiously. “I want to see you look at me as though there is nothing you would rather see, I want you to crave me as I crave you, I want you to feel even half what I do for you, I want you to do more than _tolerate_ me,” and when he kisses Coward it is far from gentle. “I want to know what you have _done_ to me,” and yet his hands are sweet.

This was never a gift Blackwood was supposed to give him – it is too much, he does not want it, he does not know what to do with it, what to go with Blackwood's heart. He does not want it. It's not a gift he would accept – except he has, again and again and again with every tentatively offered gift. He has, and now he must make the best of it; “Come to bed,” he says, and Blackwood shakes his head.

He takes a breath, hesitant himself, for once. “Come to bed,” and he – he – he is not sure, himself, he is not sure, if this is just playing along, appeasing Blackwood and nothing more, or - “Come to bed,” he says softly, “beloved.”

Blackwood shivers, and his hands come up to frame Coward's face, his forehead resting against Coward's. Coward can feel his breath, warm, as Blackwood opens his mouth – he can almost hear it, almost hear the question, almost hear the plea for him to be truthful.

They share the same breath for s second, and Blackwood doesn't ask anything.


End file.
